


Typecast

by days4daisy



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: Don't Hate Me Brona, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 06:40:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1888767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Victor encounters Ethan shortly after the events of "Grand Guignol."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Typecast

**Author's Note:**

> Heavy Spoilers for Penny Dreadful 1x08: Grand Guignol. And general spoilers for the rest of Season 1.
> 
> Enjoy!

Victor happens upon him by accident.

He has not ventured outside often since the events at the Guignol Theatre, his attention focused on more pressing matters. As Victor warned his poor creature, the process of creating life from death is a complex one. He succeeded two times before, yes. These successes permit optimism for a third victory. But there are still many steps that must be completed . Delicate surgical procedures and the fine tuning of electrical currents. One false move could spell disaster.

It is a strange sensation to walk the streets of London without the shadow that has haunted him these past few months. Caliban waits at home, he knows. He never strays far from Victor's workshop or his future bride.

It is strange, too, that Victor almost longs for the presence of his creature in the shadows. He finds himself peeking over his shoulder at turns, seeking a glimpse of Caliban's unnatural eyes. Perhaps it is this craving for attention that allows Victor to notice his acquaintance in the midst of the afternoon crowd.

He recognizes the American easily, his brown hat and long trench coat unmistakable. Victor changes direction and jogs to meet him. Jogging to make social contact... What strange changes have blossomed inside the doctor over these past few months.

"Mr. Chandler," he calls, waving a hand.

When Ethan turns, Victor stops in his tracks. He expected a smile at best, an annoyed roll of eyes at worst. But he is entirely unprepared for this expression of utter despair. "Ethan..." Victor speaks in a stunned whisper. "I mean… Mr. Chandler," he amends. "What's happened?"

Ethan blinks at him. For the recognition he shows, he might as well be facing a brick wall. "Doctor," he says. The voice does not match the source - a low, wilting rasp.

"Are you ill?" Victor asks, unable to hide his concern. What a fool he's been! Victor was so absorbed by his gift to his creature, delivering a woman worthy of the special passage between life and death. In his haste to acquire the body of his creature's mate, he did not even think to inquire after Mr. Chandler's health.

To be fair, Victor had not foreseen any need. Mr. Chandler is the very embodiment of everything Victor is not - tall, strong, a warrior. He is not the type to be stricken by disease. But then, this would not be the first time Ethan has played against type.

Surely, as Mr. Chandler's acquaintance, Victor could have offered him some relief. Sedatives, perhaps, to assist with sleep. What preventative medicine he could, to help fight off any early strains of disease transmitted during Miss Croft's final days. Mr. Chandler has made his distaste for transfusion very clear, but surely there were other options he could have presented had the consumption begun to manifest itself...

Ethan smiles, somewhat. Victor does not recognize the expression as belonging to the Mr. Chandler he knows. It is weary and passionless.

"I'm quite well, Doctor," Ethan says. He gives his cap a light tip. This is when Victor sees the blood on his hands. Fingernail-shaped cuts. Self-inflicted wounds.

"Mr. Chandler..." Victor murmurs, at a loss. "Were you... Was there an incident yesterday?"

Ethan's eyes darken, and Victor swallows back instinctive fear. This is not the Mr. Chandler he knows. That man is cocky and brash, yes. But he is also measured and self-aware.

These eyes do not belong to a man in control.

"You know how life is, Doctor," Ethan mutters. "There's an incident every day." With this, he moves to pass Victor and continue on his way.

"Mr. Chandler-"

"What?" Ethan stops, but he does not turn to face him.

"Would you..." Victor hesitates, "...like to eat something?"

Ethan laughs in response, if the sound can be called that. It is so anguished, like a cry. Victor winces sympathetically.

"Yes, Doctor." Ethan turns around, emotion shining in his eyes. "I'd like to eat something."

Victor senses a double meaning in the words, but he has no desire to understand them. As a man of science, Victor knows better than most - some knowledge is vital, other knowledge is dangerous.

***

He takes Ethan to The Red Rooster, a local tavern and inn. It is close to his studio, but he does not visit often. To be fair, there are few places Victor visits often. Unless he has a prior engagement, his days often find him attending work and returning right home. With his basement workroom now housing his creature, Victor's time outdoors is even more limited. 

On this rare evening out, Victor allows himself the luxury of an ale. Ethan orders a bottle of whiskey and a cup. It only takes minutes for him to reach the halfway point.

Victor watches in silence. On one hand, he hopes their food comes quickly, this quiet is even more uncomfortable than their usual banter on religion and science. On the other, Ethan's solemn drinking is fascinating. As a man of medicine, he is drawn to subjects that captivate him.

"You know..." Ethan looks at him with a sudden despair that makes Victor's breath catch in his throat. "I wish I could be more like you, Doc."

Victor tilts his head. "What do you mean?" he asks. He cannot think of a single instance where Ethan should want to be more like him.

"You're a blank slate," Ethan says. He looks Victor over with a strange blend of admiration and disdain. "There's nothing for you to hurt about. Nothing to feel."

"Now see here, Mr. Chandler-"

"No, no, you're right." Ethan lowers his eyes back to his drink, swirling the glass around the table. "I'm sorry, Victor."

Now Victor is even more confused. "You... What?"

"I'm sorry," Ethan repeats, his eyes still on his glass. "I've gotten to know you these past few weeks. It's not fair for me to judge. You feel things, you just... You choose who or what you feel for. I've never had that ability." He turns towards Victor and gives him a tight-lipped smile. "I feel how I feel, and more times than not I end up like this."

Victor shakes his head. "You've been through a trauma, Mr. Chandler. On more than one occasion. But to live and feel are not things to regret."

As sick as it is, Victor thinks of Caliban and Miss Croft. His poor creature and the bride-to-be. Try as he might, he cannot bring himself to feel regret for the manner of Miss Croft's passing. In her transition, she will give his daemon a chance to live and feel. Experiences that Victor himself has not had.

What should he have done instead? Should he have watched over Miss Croft for a few more hours? Stared helplessly as she stained her pillows with blood, cried over the inevitability of death, and feared the unknown waiting behind her fading eyes?

And what of Mr. Chandler? If this is his appearance today, what would it have been after another week of his love's suffering? Hasn't Victor afforded all of them an incredible mercy?

"A trauma..." Ethan echoes. He chuckles and shakes his head. "She was too good for me."

Victor's eyes narrow. He has to bite back instinctive reminders of Ethan's strength and bravery. _Think of what you have meant to Miss Ives, Sir Malcom, all of us_ , he wants to say. Ethan Chandler, not good enough for a common street whore? It's ridiculous.

Perhaps this is not fair to Miss Croft. On the occasion that Victor met her, she showed a rare kindness to dear, unfortunate Proteus. She could have shunned him for his strangeness, but she humored him with a smile that spoke to her unique love of life. Victor felt a fondness for her in that moment that carried until her death.

But acts of kindness do not change what she was, or how much better she will be in her next phase of existence.

All of this, Victor does not dare say. Instead, he tries, "I hope you'll forgive me as well, Mr. Chandler. In your moment of loss, I needed to uphold my professionalism. Or, I felt I needed to. I'm afraid I didn't express just how sorry I was." Ethan stares at Victor suddenly, startling him.

He is forced to clear his throat before he is able to continue. "Miss Croft... I can't say I knew her well. But during our brief meetings, I felt her vibrancy. And through that, I felt her sadness."

"The meaning of her name," Ethan says. His voice wavers.

Victor looks away from him. He can't bear his unstable eyes. Ethan in this condition is entirely unnatural, fascinating but too painful to look at for long.

"Yes," Victor murmurs. "I am very sorry, Mr. Chandler. From the bottom of my heart."

If only Victor could come out and tell Ethan what he has done. But even in the event of success, Victor knows that Miss Croft will be changed irreparably by this procedure. In the transfer, her heart will no longer be Ethan's. This is the price she must pay for her passage into existence between life and death.

Knowing this would cause Mr. Chandler a different pain altogether. And despite what his actions of the past week would suggest, Victor does not want to inflict unnecessary harm. Especially to a man he has begrudgingly come to hold in high esteem.

Victor nearly jumps out of his chair when Ethan gives his shoulder a squeeze. "You can be a good man when you want to be, Doc," he says.

Victor nods but says nothing. 'Good' is a relative term, especially for a man like himself. Without belief in God, 'goodness' is just another trait. And in matters of their world, it is one that tends to hurt more than it helps.

***

"I take it you will not be working tonight." It is the closest thing to anger Victor has heard from his charge since Caliban returned to him, cast out and alone.

Victor sighs. "I’ll explain something to you, and I explain it in brief because I must return upstairs before I am missed. Your wife, this project..." He waves his hand towards the body on the gurney, covered fully by a white sheet. "She was a companion of the man upstairs. He is grieving, and-"

"-you, in your kindness, will cure him of his heart's ails." Caliban's voice oozes with disdain. "For who understands matters of the heart more than you?"

"I know nothing of the heart!" Victor hisses. The admission is raw and biting. He feels its shame down to his core.

Victor takes a deep breath and forces his voice to soften. "You're right about me. I don't deny it. But this is..." He pauses, considering carefully. "This is beyond my expertise. But it is my obligation."

"A price that must be paid for stealing one man's love to satisfy another?" Caliban asks. He has grown so anxious for his bride that his question is posed with genuine curiosity, no intent to harm his maker's character. 

Intentions what they are, though, Victor _is_ injured. He swallows hard against the lump forming in his throat.

"It is my obligation as a friend," he whispers. "Please... You are within your right to act as you will, but I beg you. Let me tend to him. Give me the chance to earn his pardon as best I can."

"Matters of the heart are not pardoned so easily," Caliban says. Victor wants to laugh or cry, he isn’t sure which. The creature has grown more cultured than Victor himself, but just as inexperienced. He is a mirror of humiliation.

Victor does not laugh or cry, though. In this moment, he is bloodless, just as Mr. Chandler once accused.

"Let me repay my debt to him then," he says. "I will return shortly to repay my debt to you."

Caliban nods. Forgiveness and pardon are beyond the comprehension of his blackened heart. But he accepts the possibility of righting a wrong. It is a lofty but worthy goal indeed.

***

"I'm not staying at the Inn," Ethan says. He lies bonelessly on Victor's couch, the size of the furniture dwarfed by his height. Ethan has removed his hat and trench, both hanging from the stand beside Victor's door. 

Victor sits on a nearby chair. His nerves are just beginning to settle. Despite their conversation, Victor fully expected Caliban to expose himself. He would scale the steps from the basement and destroy the man Victor called ‘friend’ without a second thought. Or, worse, Caliban would emerge with the body of Miss Croft in his arms, exposing Victor’s deceit in grand, gruesome fashion. 

But enough time has passed and enough spirit has been consumed for Victor to ease into the realization that Caliban will not come. He will stay downstairs, hidden from view, and spend his night absorbed in dreams of his bride-to-be.

Victor, meanwhile, can spend his night absorbed in the sight of Mr. Chandler. Some of the color has returned to his face, and a soft twang has rejoined his voice. It is not the full extent of Ethan's character, but it is enough to convince Victor that he has allowed his friend into his quarters, not a stranger who needs to be worried over or feared.

"Understandable," Victor says. "Will you rent a room?"

"That's the idea," Ethan replies. He glances at Victor, flashing a smile. "I guess it's good fortune I ran into you, Doc. This idea hadn't materialized into anything yet. I was looking at sleeping under a bridge tonight."

Victor frowns. "But it's winter... And there are other inns, surely."

"Surely," Ethan repeats. It is clear that he has no intention of entering _any_ inn, not just the one he was quartered at with Miss Croft.

"Well then, I'm sure you could have called on the house of Sir Malcolm."

He does not need to see Ethan's amused look to know it is there. Victor, too, has avoided the Murray home since the events at the Guignol. It has not been a conscious decision. He believes Sir Malcolm and Miss Ives to be at peace, and Victor or Ethan's company would no doubt be welcomed.

But after all that has been seen over the past few months, their party requires a hiatus from one another. This break will be short-lived, Victor has no doubt. Fate has dictated that they belong together. But even a brief rift presents an opportunity to heal.

"Would you mind if..." Victor looks towards the small, wooden box on his table, then back to Ethan. He does not need to explain its contents after their shared nights at the Murray estate, bonded over their duty to Miss Ives.

A memory returns to Victor - Miss Ives in the throes of her affliction, her teeth bared like an animal. He recalls being shoved by unseen hands away from the evil darkness of that bedroom. Dazed, he came to himself on his hands and knees in the hallway. His first sight was the priest, his cheek replaced by a bloody hole.

Ethan takes a sip from the glass in his hand, then shrugs. Perhaps he does not approve of Victor's self-medication. But, given Ethan’s fondness for the bottle, he knows he has no right to dissent.

Victor completes his process in a fog. It has become so automatic for him: the winding of the strap around his upper arm, the journey of the needle into veins already black-and-blue from overuse, and that lovely burn.

Then, peace. Fragile waves of peace.

Victor sinks back into his seat and sighs. He drops his head lazily against the cushion, closing his eyes.

"A bloodless man couldn't carry an addiction like yours," Ethan murmurs.

Victor smirks humorlessly. "Addictions are made for the bloodless, Mr. Chandler. We drown our veins with chemical to feel as blood-filled men do."

Ethan's expression is unreadable to Victor's swimming gaze. He looks at the ceiling instead. As the morphine strolls through him, his eyes want to feast on inanimate things. Living beings create too many scenarios. Too many disasters.

"Victor." Victor raises a brow. He is not used to hearing Ethan say his proper name. 

Victor does not voice this. He just responds, "Yes?"

"Tell me, how do you do it? Live a life without love?"

"I've loved," Victor argues. He thinks immediately of his mother. "Love is loss. Love is abandonment and death."

"Love is possibility," Ethan says, stricken. Victor reminds himself that mentions of death are not to be rendered so casually in present company.

He finds it morbidly funny, however, that he is now in the role of protector, securing the broken emotions of Mr. Chandler against further injury. 

"It is, yes," Victor concedes. He rubs a tired hand across his brow. "But I find my possibility elsewhere, Mr. Chandler. My possibility is in science."

"How much possibility is there in dead things?" Ethan asks.

Victor wants to be sensitive to his feelings, but he also does not appreciate his work being denigrated. He feels a twist of anger inside.

Then, Victor recalls Sir Malcolm's insult when Miss Ives claimed that he would never go to Africa. _Leave the mad larks to the boys, Sir Malcolm._ Mad larks... Is this how Ethan hears him?

"Life and death bring extraordinary possibilities," Victor says. "But therein lies the complication. My studies depend on objective views of life and death. There can be no objectivity when love is involved." He pauses, realizing with dismay how awful he sounds. "I... Of course, it _is_ my intention to pursue life and love."

"Your intention," Ethan echoes. He sounds amused.

Victor ignores his teasing. "My work is important, Mr. Chandler. It does not afford many opportunities to look up and see the world..." He trails off, growing pale. Doctor Van Helsing spoke to him of the dangers of such a single-minded focus. An obsession, insatiable.

Ethan frowns. "Victor?"

"A companion reminded me to raise my eyes from my studies now and then." Victor's voice is quiet. "He was a wise man _and_ a man of heart. In life, he found a way to succeed in both."

"I'm sorry," Ethan says. By his tone, he was not expecting the depth of this conversation.

Victor rubs his eyes again. "It's the drug, I'm afraid. It brings out the best or worst of its subject depending on the day."

Ethan sighs. "Yeah, well. Blame me if you want. Misery loves company."

"You're in mourning, Mr. Chandler," Victor reminds with a smile. "I would not call you Misery."

"Oh?" Ethan raises a brow. "And what would you call me, Doc?"

Victor feels exposed under the weight of Ethan's stare. "Well...a friend, I suppose," he replies, guarded. "Or a companion. You did teach me to carry a firearm, after all."

Ethan laughs and tucks his hands behind his head. "And look what I started. After one shooting lesson, there you are with your shaky trigger finger in the Guignol, trying to play the hero."

Victor flushes furiously. "I wasn’t about to hide in a corner while you and Sembene had all the fun." He is not sure whether the color on his face is a result of embarrassment or pride. To think he, the most sickly of the Frankenstein brothers, would ever have the opportunity to share war stories with a man like Mr. Chandler.

"You could have got yourself killed," Ethan tells him. His eyes are light, but his voice is serious.

Victor sits up straighter in his chair. "We could have all been killed!" he retorts, offended. "Don't pretend it was just me with my life on the line."

The scene spills into his consciousness - so much blood, so many hands. His body being torn in all directions. Sembene reaching through the web of pale beasts. Ethan crying out, a wounded animal.

Victor caught his gaze in what seemed to be their final moments. He remembers the fear, the paralyzed anguish. The expression on Ethan's face - blind, option-less horror.

In that moment, Victor was certain he was going to die. He had no business surviving the nightmare that destroyed a man like Ethan Chandler. 

"Easy, Doctor." Ethan raises his hands innocently. Hands with nail marks in the palms. "I'm not insulting your manhood."

"Between this and calling me loveless, you certainly could have fooled me," Victor mutters. He knows his anger is petty, but the drug in his system has numbed his civility.

To be fair, even fully sober, civility is difficult to maintain during conversations with Mr. Chandler. They are such opposites in every way, it is as if Fate has placed them together for the sole sake of argument.

Victor will forever be the lesser man in strength. But he is unwilling to relent on a war of words so easily.

He nods towards Ethan's palms. "Speaking of one's manhood, you've yet to tell me the story of your bloody hands." One look at Ethan's glare tells Victor that he should stop. But his cease-reflex is not functioning at the moment. He puts on an air of innocence. "I am a doctor, Mr. Chandler. It's my duty to ask after your well-being."

"Your duty is to shut the fuck up about it," Ethan mutters.

"My, my," Victor goads, "that temper has returned, I see."

His smirk quickly fades when he sees just how shaded Mr. Chandler's face has become. Provoking him can be a delight, but even during their angriest arguments he cannot recall an expression like the one Ethan wears now.

His is not the face of a man ready to engage in a war of words. It's the face of a man who wants to kill.

Victor backtracks carefully. "But...you're right, Mr. Chandler. Your business is not mine, unless it directly involves me or my affairs."

"Why don't you call me Ethan?" The question shakes Victor from his fear. Ethan is still looking at him, but his fury has ebbed, replaced by genuine interest. "Why the formalities if we're friends, like you say?"

"It's just...natural, I suppose," Victor replies. He cannot put words to why, but Ethan's accusation makes him uncomfortable.

"It's distancing," Ethan says. A statement, not a question. Victor opens his mouth to argue but falters.

Feebly, he looks down at his hands, all bone like a skeleton. "Yes," he agrees. "You may be right. Ethan."

***

Victor is not surprised when the nightmares come. He himself has given up on sleep for the time being. Instead, he self-medicates, allowing himself to float atop a river of serenity without ever being prey to his foul dreams.

There is a time when he would have scoffed at the notion of Ethan Chandler suffering from night terrors. But that was before vampyres and daemons. Possession, murder, and the Book of the Dead.

Ethan is on the floor. He refused to sleep in the bed, and he is too tall to sleep comfortably on the sofa. Therefore, on the floor with one pillow and blanket is where Victor finds him. He is already awake when Victor kneels by his side. His eyes are large and distant, and his mouth is parted in a silent horror that Victor knows too well.

Victor remains quiet. There is nothing that can be said to ease the troubles of a broken mind. He just sighs, a show of camaraderie. Instinctively, he brushes Ethan's hair away from his face, as he might from the cheek of a child. 

Victor's breath catches when Ethan grabs his wrist. Ethan stares at him with wet, shining eyes. He begins to sit up, his weight on an elbow.

Victor bows his head and kisses him. It comes over him like a trance, a final deception from the drug. At least when Ethan pushes him away, he can use his horrid morphine addiction as an excuse.

Ethan does not push him away. He releases Victor's wrist in favor of running fingers up his neck and into his hair. Ethan cups the back of his head, drawing Victor closer to him. Victor makes a soft sound, encouraging.

Ethan sits up more, allowing Victor to kiss him with greater fervor. He feels the scratch of stubble from Ethan's beard, his hair a soft whisper against his face. 

Ethan is surprisingly gentle. Victor expected to be shoved away at first, cursed as an abomination and disgrace against nature. But if not denied, Victor thought he would be possessed. He should be clawed and chewed, torn apart by vicious Western hands.

Ethan rubs Victor's hair and strokes the back of his other hand against Victor's cheek. He hums his quiet content and responds to Victor's mouth in ways that urge Victor to take over and do as much as he feels is right.

"I...I should beg your pardon, Ethan," Victor whispers. His fingers shake, but he forces himself to pull back. "You've gone through so much. I shouldn't."

Ethan props his cheek against a hand. "And what have you gone through, Victor?"

Victor smiles and shakes his head. "Not more than you," he says. "On that point, I refuse to engage."

Ethan chuckles. He reaches up to run his knuckles across Victor's cheek gently. The hand slides down his jaw, over his neck. Victor exhales slowly.

"Can I ask you a question, Doc?" Ethan asks. Victor nods. "Your interest in me. Did it come before or after the truths revealed during Miss Ives' affliction?"

Victor frowns. Ethan does not need to explain, he knows exactly which truth is being referred to. "I have no interest in your business with Mr. Gray," he says.

"I didn't say you did," Ethan says. Victor is embarrassed by this, though he isn't sure why.

He struggles to put words to his thoughts. "I'd be lying if I said the truth did not affect me, I admit."

"Affected how?" Victor expects Ethan to sound angrier, or at the very least more ashamed. But he does not. If anything, he sounds sad. Victor is not sure what to make of him.

"It...made you approachable," Victor says.

Ethan tilts his head. "I wasn't before?"

"You were a type before," Victor replies. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I knew you the second I laid eyes on you. The American. All swagger and brash idiocy."

"Now how could I possibly take that the wrong way?" Ethan asks pleasantly.

"You were a character, you were not a man," Victor explains, more urgent. "But I saw that wasn't you. You were different. Your depths were untested, I had not even scratched the surface."

Ethan shakes his head. "You need to stay off the poetry, Doc."

"I thought that myself earlier this evening," Victor admits. Ethan looks confused, but Victor has no interest in explaining anything about the conversation with his daemon. He focuses instead on Ethan beside him. His mouth is just a touch moist from their connection.

"I have no poetry for this anyhow," Victor adds.

"Better that way, probably," Ethan murmurs. He stretches an arm to Victor. Casually, he traces a thumb over his mouth, collecting the matching wetness that must no doubt stain his own lips.

 _You have such clean hands, Doctor_. The vision of Miss Ives jolts Victor like cold water. Ethan frowns at the reaction, an expression Victor chooses to believe is one of concern.

Victor takes Ethan's wrist and nuzzles his face into the palm of his hand. His mouth touches the nail-scars blemishing his skin.

Ethan grunts discomfort, but to Victor's surprise he does not tear his hand away. The surrender encourages him. He drags his tongue over the scars, tasting their faint copper. Blood is a grotesquely intoxicating flavor.

"You're true to type yourself, Doctor," Ethan says.

"And how is that?" Victor asks. His voice is a low breath, far more interested in tasting Ethan's skin than engaging him in conversation.

"Too damn curious," Ethan replies. Victor does not get to ask what he means, Ethan removes his hand from Victor's and claims the open space between them. Victor gapes at how close they are. Ethan's nose brushes his, and their mouths are inches apart.

Victor's breaths shudder with a nervous desire, his whole body alight with a warmth he cannot recall feeling in a long while. If ever. "Is...this my punishment for curiosity?" he asks.

Ethan chuckles quietly. "Is that what you want, Victor? To be punished?" Victor has no words, nothing to fight back with. Ethan's mouth twitches at a corner.

Victor’s last rational thought is that he is in trouble. No, worse. He is in more danger than he can even begin to comprehend. 

Then, Ethan kisses him. For one of the first times in his life, Victor’s mind fails, and he just allows himself to feel.

*Fin*


End file.
